


things we do for fun

by kiiouex



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, Frottage, Kavinsky is a content warning, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 15:56:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6963334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiiouex/pseuds/kiiouex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your eyes follow the line of his throat when he swallows, and hunger turns you inside out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	things we do for fun

**Author's Note:**

> For a tumblr prompt, 'On the edge of consciousness' with K and Proko. In case you missed the tags, this is super dub-con, and I'm going to assume we're all adult enough I don't need a content disclaimer. 
> 
> Usual thanks to [telekinesiskid](http://archiveofourown.org/users/telekinesiskid) even though she gets very mean about my punctuation :c (I deserve it)

You learned how to do it from him. It's not as hard as you think it should be: wait until Kavinsky turns his head to shoot an order at some distant disobedient and lean in, slide your hand over the lip of his bottle. The pill's one of his - he gave it to you, what else did he expect you to do with it? – and it dissolves into amber suds, traceless in seconds. Even if you weren’t in the corner, even if the sounds of the party weren’t enough to drown you out, you’re near-invisible when you’re next to K. No one notices.

You’re back in your seat when K looks back around, and you are casual except for two clenched fists tucked between your knees. The evening had been spooling out slowly around you, a backlot party unexceptional but for the steel thread tightening inside you until finally, finally your courage found you. Now you’re wondering if it’s too late to swap the bottles back, fear of consequences surging up. A tidal wave of _want_ crashes over it. You are casual except for the searing mess of your intestines, your heartbeat drowning out the bass, the taste of blood between your teeth as your body tries to release tension by severing your tongue. If you breathe, you think, you’ll give it away.

K glances at you with easy dismissal, aware something strange is firing in your head but ready to ignore you for as long as you keep your mouth shut. The couch you’re sharing is an insular world, and his attention is called back to the dwindling embers of the party behind him as he picks up his beer. It’s better that he’s still not looking at you, because you can’t help the way you’re fixating on his lips. You have never been more aware of every cut and scar and scratch spoiling them as you are now that the rim of the bottle is pressed up against them. This is the boldest thing you’ve ever done and you are going to ruin yourself long before you can ruin him.

 Your eyes follow the line of his throat when he swallows, and hunger turns you inside out. Slowly, K sets the bottle down on the table, and slowly, he turns to look at you, head cocked, eyes flashing. It’s the look that reminds you that you came from his head, and the look that reminds you _he_ gave you the pill, and he might know what it tastes like. Fear is almost as good as hunger, and you tremble, conflicted only now that it’s too late to change things.

K looks at where your hands grip your knees, white-knuckled like you can hold yourself together physically even while your willpower fails you. He picks his drink back up. “Party’s dead,” he tells you, and takes a very long gulp. Your throat bobs when his does, and you feel sandpaper rasp your gullet, jarring against the imagined slickness of his. The bottle he throws aside is empty. “Let’s get out of here.”

He takes the passenger side of his own car, and you know he knows, and you are throbbing, desperate, distracted, and still a better choice for driver than he would be. The route to his place is hardcoded into you, a short trip and one you can make while spending every red light drinking in the sight of Kavinsky’s head starting to loll. His eyes fight to stay open, flickering between the harsh flashes of lights and your face, his expression incendiary. You can’t tell if he’s pleased or not. You can’t tell if he’s just letting this happen, if he’s going to pay you back triple, if he’s ever wanted to give up control, just for one night, and see what you’d do with power.

He stumbles getting out of the car, grabs for the roof and slips, lands awkwardly on his knees by the open door. He doesn’t get up in the time it takes you to round the car, and his fingers are bloodless with the effort to stay where he is. You ease yourself under his shoulder and help him to stand, taking staggering, unsteady steps with him into the house.

The basement stairs are too hard so you pick a different room, any room, and cross it like you only have three legs between you. K finds the couch in the centre and crashes onto it hard, sprawled bonelessly over the cushions. His expression is as relaxed as the rest of him, heavy lids and parted lips, but his eyes are a bonfire and they sear you to the bone. Permission implicit, consequences uncertain, the Gordian knot of your gut impossible to ignore any more.

The first time he did this to you, you didn't know what had happened. You didn't remember taking anything and suddenly you couldn't walk, legs like hot wax pooling you slowly to the floor. Kavinsky had picked you up, and he'd been so  _kind_  - maybe that should have tipped you off, how gently he'd handled you, how sweetly he'd set you on the bed while your head swam and reality fluttered in the brief snatches when your eyes were open.

You remember how it felt, to be distant and floating and so achingly open. You trace along Kavinsky’s jaw, watch him lose time between blinks, push your fingers into your mouth, just to see if you can. His teeth graze your fingers, but he can’t co-ordinate quite well enough to bite, and the curse he slurs out is a sigh, reverent. You feel less in control than you’d hoped.

You straddle his thighs, trying to breathe deep and ignore the prickling in your skin. You’ve been hard for him since you left the party but this is going to play out at whatever pace you want it to, and you want to go slow. It’s not usually slow, with K, and it’s a unique kind of torture for him as your hands ghost up his sides, push his tank up in scant inches. He tips his head to the side, eyes falling shut as he phases out.

When he comes back in, you’ve got three fingers pressed against his tongue, spit sliding down your hand and over his slack jaw. His teeth tighten around your hand again, but not hard enough to leave a mark, and you can see frustration crease his brow, just for a second, before his expression shifts, liquid and dreamy and somewhere very far away. You’d thought he might actually find this relaxing, but even you can’t always tell with him. You’ll find out after, what he thinks.

You shuffle up, just a little, just enough that when you rock forward it brings your hips together and you can feel that he’s as desperately hard for you as you are for him. His fingers twitch, reaching, but one hand is dangling off the sofa and the other is lying by your knee and neither can move far enough to do anything of consequence. You remember the intensity of the feeling of being trapped in your skin, the raw vulnerability of it, and you rock your hips again. K exhales around your fingers in his mouth, hot air skimming your knuckles, and you gnaw the inside of your cheek bloody.

His body’s loose under you, but you can feel the change in K, in the drag of his teeth over your skin. With all the lucidity he can muster, he sucks on your fingers, and your entire body shudders. “K,” you say, grinding down on him with fragmenting self-control, and, “fuck,” because you don’t have anything else to say. Words are too much for his tongue right now, and you slide your fingers out of his mouth, stare at gleaming submission beneath you, watch him blink in slow motion and wonder how much is filtering through. You hope he’s getting all of this. You hope that when he’s recovered and once he’s through with you he gets to live with the memory of you wiping your spit-slicked fingers on his chest.

You caught him, once, his hand over your drink, retreating, empty. He'd paused, tensed, like you were one of the others and about to smack the glass off the table and lunge at him. You'd picked up the bottle, slow and deliberate, and skulled it. The vicious satisfaction on his face as he helped you leave kindled something very low in your stomach. It was because you like this game, and because you felt like it, and it was because you had something to prove; you aren’t one of the others. You’re his before you’re theirs, and nothing sets you alight like him _wanting_ you.

Your hands crawl under his waistband while he’s still out, and it’s sacrilege when he can’t even ward you off with a glare, wrong and good enough to make your mouth water. You watch his face for a flicker of consciousness as you tug his pants down, but he doesn’t surface, even as you ease him out of his pants, even as you stare down at him and his flushed, waiting cock. Even taut and aching, you finally feel the flicker of control you’ve been waiting for.

You drag your fingers along his hipbones, drawing it out, and you remember the kinds of marks you wake up with - hickeys like bruises, dark and savage, throbbing like you could find the imprint of his teeth on your collarbone. You rake your nails over him instead, hard enough to catch on his skin and leave stinging lines, something to feel when he wakes up because he’s yours before he’s anyone else’s.

He’s got his eyes open the next time you look at him, but he’s just hot skin and loose limbs now, sweat beading on his forehead and his breath coming in pants. He doesn’t look complacent, because he’s K, but he’s still watching. The hand by your knee manages to swat at you, and you don’t know what he wants, and you don’t want to know what he wants, because this is for you. You don’t touch him. A sound dies in the back of his throat, his hand tries to catch you, and you ignore him completely, sitting up on your knees to slide your shorts down.

He stops trying to instruct you. You know you’re not going to survive much direct contact, because it’s a wonder you’ve made it this long without spoiling yourself, so you fixate on what’s important: his face when you stroke his cock, the delirious shudder he’s too out of it to suppress when you roll your thumb over the head, the catch of his breath, half-sigh half-curse and enough to send shivers to the core of you.

You go as slow as you like, pressing down on him and holding your dick against his. He’ll play with anticipation, but only to be cruel. This is sweet, as much a dream for you as it is for him, two sets of heaving lungs filling the space between you with heat and hunger as you start to stroke. This is the boldest thing you’ve ever done and you wish you’d done it sooner; the most you’ve ever taken from him, and you can’t wait to see how he’ll retaliate.

K’s mostly present while you grind down against him, and when he’s not he’s somewhere better, the hazy space between sex and lucidity that you’re too familiar with. It’s a little rough, sweat and pre not enough to prevent friction, but he likes it and you’re not in a rush. You feel every twitch of him against you, the weak scrabbles of his fingers against your leg, the shudders that travel through him to you.

Bracing yourself with a hand by his head you lean down, caging him in, stroking you and him so lazy and sweet and tight between your bodies. You want to bite his lip hard enough to scar it, and you want to breathe in his every exhale, and you hover there, looking down for once, spoiled by power. The next time his eyes flicker open, they fix on you, indulgence and lust and the same strained need pulsing in your gut.

You come. All over your hand and his stomach, and with a shudder hard enough to shake all the tension out of you. You disappear to that familiar space, gasping and overwhelmed and mindlessly relieved, and find K’s spilled out over your fingers. He’s still watching you, need replaced with a kind of vicious satisfaction that shivers off his face when you give him a last, slick stroke.

He’s out a minute later, and you doubt he’s coming back while the pill’s in his system. A hard reset; it’ll be good for him. You consider cleaning him up, but he’s never cleaned you up, so you just think _fuck it_ and throw yourself down beside him. Your raw edges are still burning, and sleep feels distant. You’re not familiar with this kind of high, but it’s intoxicating - sharp where you usually like things soft. You’re not sure it really suits you, but K’s sprawled out and scratched up thanks to you.

When you’re back in your place, he’ll know exactly what he’s doing to you.

**Author's Note:**

> I took a break from writing people possessively biting each other to do people possessively scratching each other :'^) thank you for reading!! I'd love to hear your thoughts!! I'm also over on [tumblr](http://kiiouex.tumblr.com/)


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